


Day 24 & 26 - I'll hold you (when the sky comes crashing down)

by broken_fannibal



Series: Whumptober 2020 [7]
Category: Good Omens (TV)
Genre: Aftermath of Torture, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Angst with a Happy Ending, Autistic Crowley (Good Omens), Blindness, Blood, Blood and Injury, Caretaker Aziraphale (Good Omens), Caretaking, Crowley Whump (Good Omens), Crying, Headaches & Migraines, Heavy Angst, Holy Water, Hugs, M/M, Original Character Death(s), Pain, Semi-Verbal, Tinnitus, Torture, Whump
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-25
Updated: 2020-12-26
Packaged: 2021-03-10 19:14:09
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,778
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28322184
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/broken_fannibal/pseuds/broken_fannibal
Summary: Crowley gets captured and tortured by a cult. They know he's a demon so they know exactly how to hurt him.When Aziraphale finds him, he's gravely injured.
Relationships: Aziraphale & Crowley (Good Omens), Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Series: Whumptober 2020 [7]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1949557
Comments: 19
Kudos: 73
Collections: Whumptober 2020





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> this is a rewrite of my fic (posted in july last year) I was lost at the edge of dying (in a world so cold) that I did because I actually really like it but after re-reading it again and again I kept noticing things I didn't like so here we are.  
> I changed the ending and imo the consistency is better and overall it flows more nicely.
> 
>  **whumptober prompts:**  
>  day 24 - sensory deprivation  
> day 26 - blindness

What had they done to him? They couldn't have drugged him! That shouldn't be possible… And yet his movements grew sluggish, he was losing control over his body.

He had no strength left to fight them as they dragged him away.

They moved him down a dimly lit hallway. They stopped at a small room, there they took his sunglasses.

Crowley tried to struggle but his body was too weakened by whatever they had given him. He started to panic in earnest when one human reached for the hem of his shirt and pulled it over his head. Another set to work on the buckle of his belt, then his fly.

What were they stripping him for? What were they going to do to him? Thousands of possibilities chased through his mind, one more horrible than the other.

Fear closed around his throat as they dragged him further down the hallway towards a heavy metal door.

From the second they opened it, he was blinded by the sheer brightness inside. He squeezed his eyes shut and tried to fight, to kick, anything to escape whatever they had planned to do to him. It only somewhat worked. While the increasing fear gave him a little strength, it wasn't nearly enough to make any difference.

And then he felt himself fall. He opened his eyes just in time to realise they had thrown him into the room.

He gasped at the shock of the cold air and even colder tiles against his skin.

As quickly as he could, Crowley got up, off the ground, and ran to the door, pounding against it, shouting, calling, yelling as loudly as he could. But no one answered. No one opened the door.

Of course, not. Why would they?

Slowly, he turned back around. His eyes had slightly adjusted to the brightness but it still stung. He saw that every wall, even the ceiling was covered in white tiles. He squinted and blinked against the bright lights on the ceiling, it reflected on all the shining tiles. Tears blurred his vision as he tried to find anything he could use as shelter. Either from the cold or the light. But there was nothing. The room was completely bare.

It only served to make him feel even more vulnerable, naked as he was.

His eyes started burning, he squeezed them shut and opened them again. There had to be something he could do…

White spots began to dance across his vision. He simply wasn't used to this kind of brightness anymore, never mention the cold. Hell was warm, damp and dark, a much better environment for a demon. This felt too much like heaven. The same bright, cold environment. The only thing missing was the holiness.

His head started hurting, pounding, he steadied himself with a hand against the wall. The white spots obscuring his vision got bigger and bigger.

Everything was so cold, so bright, so painful. He closed his eyes again, his head swam. His hand slipped and his shoulder crashed into the wall. Soon, he had to push away, it got too cold. But he lost his balance and fell.

His knees hit the ground, his ears started ringing, he dropped onto his side, barely managed to catch himself. The brutal thrumming in his skull got worse and worse.

The cold of the floor bit into his skin. He turned from his side onto his back, ready to shield his eyes from the bright lights again. But it seemed to make no difference when he draped an arm over his face. He stared ahead, blinking, moving his hand. To his great horror, he realised that he saw nothing. Only white. Burning, blinding white. And then gradually, it got dark. Darker and darker. Until there was only grey.

Fuck.

He was blind.

With his vision taken away, the cold felt even harsher. He turned onto his other side and curled up. The ringing in his ears was joined by the rushing of blood. It was so loud.

All he could feel now was the burning cold against his skin, the headache raging on inside his skull.

Crowley had no idea how long it had been. Time was hard to measure. It was difficult to concentrate on anything.

A warm rush of air filled the room. He heard vague shuffling, distant voices over the sheer amount of noise in his ears. People had come in. The people who had captured him?

Something rammed into his chest and sent him rolling onto his back.

He started hearing voices, they must have come closer now. Slowly, he caught words, bits and pieces of what they were saying. Insulting him, taunting him, laughing at him. Then something that sounded like a question, directed at him, it seemed.

But he couldn't answer, he couldn't talk, couldn't form words, couldn't focus. He wanted to shout, to fight, he wanted it to stop. In all the centuries he had been alive he had never felt so powerless.

With all their talking, the pounding in his head had gotten worse. He brought his hands up to cover his ears, to block out the noise. Or he tried to.

Before he could reach them, hands grabbed his wrists and dragged his arms in opposite directions. Shackles were closed around his wrists, he heard the rattling of chains, his arms were dragged up. He tugged but the chains were taut, they didn't give, not one bit. What were they going to do him that they needed his hands out of the way?

With his hands fixed above his head, he felt incredibly exposed… The renewed fear and panic only added to his headache. Every minute when he thought it couldn't get worse, it somehow did. It felt as if there was a rod being driven through his temples. The pain pulsed and spread, sharp and dull at the same time.

How much longer would he have to endure this? What else were they going to do to him? Had they even started yet? What if this was just the preparation?

They had to know he was a demon. They knew exactly how to render him helpless. Did that mean they also knew how to hurt him? The possibility scared him like nothing else had ever scared him. If he wasn't so paralyzed by pain, he'd be fighting. He'd fight with everything he had, he'd hiss, he'd shift, he'd claw, he'd make them fear him. But as it was now… he had nothing. No power. Only pain.

Crowley was torn from his thoughts by a kick to his side. Instinctively, he tried to bring his arms down, but he only ended up uselessly pulling at the chains. In an attempt to at least protect himself a little, he pulled his legs up. But he didn't get far. Something pressed down on them, bringing them back onto the ice-cold ground.

He jumped when something wet dripped onto his hip. Not even a second later, it started burning. Such a small spot but it burned so much, it burned like only something holy could.

A scream ripped through the fog of pain and ringing noise and static that clouded his senses. Who was screaming? He couldn't tell where it came from. That spot on his hip felt like it was eating through his skin, his flesh. Screams bounced off the walls, they seemed to come from everywhere, far and near, left and right. It made him even dizzier.

His head felt like it was going to burst. The noise made his ever-growing pain so much worse with every passing second.

Then the screaming stopped.

Had he imagined it?

It was oddly quiet. No more voices, no more noises. Where were they? Had they left?

The cold made his back burn almost as badly as the liquid burned on his hip. The pain had long passed the point of what he thought he could endure. Yet he was still here. Still present. Still suffering.

He felt a rush of warm air against his back. The door must have opened. They were back.

He curled in on himself and whimpered. He couldn't. He couldn't take it.

A well-aimed kick sent him rolling onto his back.

Wet splashed over his stomach. It burned. It burned even worse than before. It ate through his skin, his flesh, his bones, searing him right down to his demonic core.

He tried to get away, he trembled, he pulled, he shook, he kicked. Nothing eased the excruciating pain. It crashed over him in waves, almost pulsing, pulsing like the headache splitting his skull open.

And the screams were there again, even louder than before. As they rose in volume, the noise in his ears picked up.

Another splash of the holy substance, the burning, searing, stinging pain ripped through his chest.

Why was he still conscious? Why was he still alive? Holy water should kill him. What were they using? Did Heaven have a hand in this?

He trashed as the pain reached a new peak. As it did, the screaming roared up.

And then it hit him.

He was screaming.

He had been the one screaming the entire time.

He was screaming, sobbing, whimpering.

Small drops splashed over his legs. Small burning pinpricks, eating through his flesh. But before they could even begin to hurt him on a deeper level, a huge amount was poured over his left shoulder and arm, it ran down, all the way around to his back.

He couldn't hold back the scream that tore from his throat, he felt the soreness. His eardrums felt like they were about to burst. It hurt so much.

When would it be over? Would it ever be over? He couldn't take it. He couldn't take another second of it.

Oh, but he'd have to, wouldn't he? Because they wouldn't stop. They wanted him to suffer. And they knew how to hurt him the most.

A hand gripped his hair, dragging his head back. Another pulled his jaw open.

Panic took him over, threatening to choke him. What were they-

It burned worse than anything before. It burned in his mouth, in his throat. He choked, he trashed. But that only made the holy liquid bubble up. Made it run down his chin onto his chest. Someone pushed him onto his side. It ran out of his mouth, spread on the floor. It burned his side, his arm, his face. He whimpered, his breathing ragged, throaty, rattling.

He hoped they'd leave. Hadn't they done enough to him already?

Someone turned him onto his back again and grabbed his face, wrenching his jaw open.

Frantic panic took him over.

No, no! Not again!

He fought, tried to pull away with what little strength he had. But it barely made a difference.

The grip was firm, his shoulders were held down. Something was forced into his mouth, down his throat, it made him gag.

He heard liquid being poured, felt burning splashes on his face and then it happened. It burned deep in his throat, no chance to fight it. He choked and whimpered. It scorched, burned in his throat, in his lungs. Burning him from the inside.

As if it wasn't enough, a wave of liquid crashed over his legs.

It was all too much. He wished he would pass out. He wished he would die. His entire body burned, inside and out. Just like it had when he had fallen. There was nothing he could do. There was no relief. No way out. Only this horrible, excruciating pain. Over and over again. It filled all his senses, it occupied his every thought. Time was non-existent.

Suddenly, warm air came over him, like every time they had come back. The pain flared up.

Had he tried to scream? His throat felt like it was being torn open all over again.

What were they going to do to him now? Would it be worse? Could it even be worse?

A strange feeling enveloped him, like a familiar, comforting presence that he couldn't place. The cold faded. The warmth surrounding him didn't hurt as much any more.

Was this it? Was his body finally quitting?

Discorporation had never seemed so welcome.


	2. Chapter 2

Aziraphale blinked through tears as he took in the room, as he took in the motionless body.

Crowley gave a raw, choked noise and trembled. In an instant, he was by his side.

"Crowley?"

But nothing happened. He got no response.

He simply lay there, tremours running through him. His skin had huge spots of sore, reddened skin. His eyes were entirely snake-like and wide open, they seemed unfocused, staring straight ahead at nothing in particular. His lips, chin, neck and chest were crusted with blood. His jaw was slack, his mouth slightly open. Aziraphale could see fangs, they had blood on them as well.

His hands were bound above his head. Scales covered his skin along his thighs to his hips.

What had they done to him? He had never seen Crowley like this…

Apart from the small noise he had made earlier, Crowley was completely quiet. He was so still too, completely unlike him.

Aziraphale bit his lip, more tears ran down his cheeks. It broke his heart to see him like this. But he was here now, he had saved him, he had punished those who had hurt him, he would take him away from here, would take care of him and shelter him and help him recover.

He miracled a big cloth and wrapped him up in it. Then, as gently as possible, he picked the limp body up. And with a last look out into the hallway where the perpetrator's bodies lay, he moved them to the bookshop.

Standing among the bookshelves, he decided this was not the right place. In the blink of an eye, he stood in his practically unused bedroom.

Carefully, he put Crowley's limp, unmoving body down on the bed. The cloth was soaked in a clear liquid which, upon closer inspection, felt a little holy.

His heart clenched painfully. No wonder he had been so strongly affected by whatever they had done to him…

But it also meant that he couldn't heal him. The wounds inflicted on his body were so grave because of his demonic core. If he'd try to heal him it might only hurt him more, another painful onslaught of something holy.

Crowley would need to heal on his own.

He'd stay by his side, he'd be there for him however long it would take.

Slowly he lifted Crowley until his body hovered over the bed. As he unwrapped the cloth, he was confronted with the sheer amount of wounds again. He decided he should clean away the blood and the remnants of the holy liquid. So he hurried to get a bowl of water and a soft cloth. Then, he gently wiped the dried blood off his chin, neck and chest.

As he wiped away the blood, wounds like the ones on the rest of his body came to light. Strangely, they radiated warmth. And they looked like burn wounds did on humans. In that case, it would make sense to cool them, wouldn't it? At least a little. And gently.

He soaked the cloth in the water again and laid it down on Crowley's shoulder.

While he waited, he noticed that his eyes were still open, still staring vacantly ahead, unblinking. He reached up and closed them. Even at that Crowley didn't react.

He picked up the cloth and moved it to his chest. He continued until he had cooled all the wounds, both on his front and on his back. There were so many… It hurt to think about how much pain this must have caused.

When he got back from emptying the bowl and hanging the cloth up to dry, he stopped in the door.

The way Crowley floated there, unconscious, unresponsive, nearly lifeless, his body bare. It made him so vulnerable.

He had never seen this much of Crowley's skin. Ever. He always wore long sleeves, long pants, always shielding himself.

And now that shield, that protection had been forcibly stripped away.

He sat down on the edge of the bed. To make it easier for the wounds to heal he should keep him hovering over the bed and uncovered. Even though he desperately wanted to cover Crowley to protect him, to make him feel less vulnerable when he woke up.

The least he could do to make sure Crowley was warm, unlike Aziraphale, he had always preferred warm climates over cold ones. In that way, his body was exactly like a snake's. So with another miracle, he heated the air around Crowley.

And then he sat there. He didn't want to leave, he wanted to be there in case he woke up. He needed to be there.

So with a snap of his fingers, he moved an armchair and a pile of books to the bedroom and started reading. Every once in a while, he looked up and over at Crowley. To check on him, to see he had moved. If anything at all had happened.

But it never did.

He sat there for many hours, the sun rose and set and rose. Yet Crowley didn't wake. He hadn't moved either. Not even the slightest bit.

One morning, as he regarded Crowley's pale face in the early morning light, he decided he needed to do something. He couldn't only wait.

So he put a glass of water and a note on the bedside table before heading out to the next pharmacy to ask for something to aid the recovery of burn wounds.

He returned with an aloe vera ointment.

Twice a day, Aziraphale applied the ointment.

This went on for nearly two weeks. The wounds were healing, they were still a little red but none of them were swollen or infected.

But Crowley remained unconscious.

He wasn't dead or somewhere else, Aziraphale was sure of that. He felt Crowley's presence in the body. Even though it was weaker and quieter than usual. But he was most definitely there.

Now that the wounds looked so well, he decided he didn't need to keep him hovering over the bed anymore, a blanket should be alright too.

He sat at Crowley's bedside, reading day and night. Whenever he got to a story he thought Crowley would like, he read it out loud. He wasn't sure if it was any use but maybe hearing his voice would somehow bring him back to consciousness quicker. Or maybe this was simply something he needed to tell himself so he wouldn't feel so utterly helpless.

He had been reading a story from the Norse mythology out loud, one of Loki's many mischiefs, when something entirely unexpected happened.

Crowley shifted. He lifted his head and turned it towards him.

Aziraphale beamed. "Crowley! You're awake! I thought you'd never-"

Crowley shook his head, his face scrunched up and hurriedly gestured at him.

"What is it?" he asked, immediately worried.

He gave a pained whimper, his shoulders pulled up.

"Talk to me! Tell me what I can do to help you!" His voice grew louder, more desperate. He hated seeing him in pain more than anything. He hated not knowing what to do.

Crowley rolled onto his side and curled up, his hands shot up to cover his ears. His face was a tense grimace.

And then Aziraphale understood. It had been him talking, so loudly on top of that, that had pained Crowley.

It took a while until he moved again. He lowered his hands and after a moment some of the tension faded from his shoulders.

Slowly, Aziraphale reached out to caress his shoulder. "I'm sorry, dear," he whispered.

Crowley flinched at the touch. But slowly, he nodded.

"Could you look at me?" Aziraphale asked, his voice low.

A frown flicked over Crowley's features, then his eyes widened.

Was he scared? Of what? What did that mean?

When he looked up, Aziraphale noticed that his eyes were still snake-like, no white sclera in sight. Did he not know his eyes looked like that? He barely ever showed them so freely nowadays, even when they were alone. A thought crept up on him. What if he had no control over it? Could it be that he hadn't regained full control of himself, of his body?

He put on an encouraging smile, hoping it would put him at ease. But he showed no reaction, not the slightest change in expression. His eyes looked so unfocused, like he was only staring without really seeing.

"-ou still there?" Crowley rasped, barely audible.

"What- I- yes, of course. I'm right here in front of you."

Crowley nodded and closed his eyes for a moment.

"Can't you see me?" Worry stole its way into his voice.

He shook his head.

"Oh…" New worry crashed over him. What had they done to him that caused this? Was there something he could do? Or was it permanent? His throat tightened. He took a deep breath, trying to ignore all the anxious thoughts. "Would you like something to drink? It sounds like your throat is rather dry," he said, still keeping his voice quiet.

Crowley seemed to consider it for a moment. Then he nodded.

"I'll be right back," he promised.

As he came back with a glass of water in hand, he froze in the doorway. Crowley lay on his back, his arms and legs spread out, unmoving. The image of what Crowley had looked like when he had found him flashed before his eyes again. The position was too similar.

He closed his eyes for a moment and took a steadying breath. He didn't miss the way Crowley jumped when he heard steps coming closer.

"It's me. I'm back," he said quietly, trying to sound as steady as possible.

Slowly, Crowley sat and held out his hand.

Aziraphale placed the glass against his palm and closed his fingers around it.

He drank slowly, wincing and flinching as he swallowed. When he had finished the glass, he licked his lips.

Alarmed, Aziraphale noticed the stain of red left behind on his pale lips. Was he bleeding again? In his mouth? That could be the reason he had winced when he had swallowed.

He took the glass from Crowley's hand and set it down on the nightstand. Then he reached out and touched his cheek. Best give him some idea where he was before he did anything.

He still tensed a little.

Slowly, Aziraphale hooked the thumb of his other hand over his teeth to pull his mouth open.

Crowley made a protesting noise and tried to pull his head away.

"Hold still, dear…" he said softly. He gripped Crowley's jaw and tried to pull it open. He leaned in, trying to spot any possible injury. But before he could take a proper look, Crowley quickly pushed his hands away. He hissed and reared back, shuffling to the other end of the bed, his eyes wide, his chest heaving.

Carefully, Aziraphale moved closer. "There's no need to be scared. I simply- If you would let me-"

Panic took over Crowley's expression. Tension built in his body. And when he felt the heat of Aziraphale's hand over his cheek, he jumped up and raced out of the room.

Aziraphale blinked. What had happened? Why had he reacted this way?

He was torn from his thoughts by a loud crash downstairs. Fear and worry took hold of his heart. His worst fears seemed to have come true when he saw him at the bottom of the stairs. His heart leapt painfully.

Crowley's body lay there, way too still. Like a discarded ragdoll.

He rushed down the stairs and gathered him up in his arms.

He gave a soft whimper.

Aziraphale pulled him closer, gently touched his head and planted a kiss on his forehead. "I'm so sorry, dear," he whispered. Tears prickled in his eyes. He tipped his head back and felt them run down his cheeks.

It hurt to see Crowley so weak. So helpless. So vulnerable. Usually, he was the helpless one, the one who needed to be rescued. Not Crowley. Never Crowley. He couldn't think of a single time he'd asked him for help because he was in a pinch.

And now here he was. Limp in his arms…

He sniffled and looked down.

Crowley shifted a little, head turned to the side.

He wiped over his own cheeks, wiping away the tears, before wrapping his arms around him again.

As soon as his hand touched Crowley's shoulder, he hissed and started squirming. Trying to get away.

Aziraphale held onto him tighter but that only seemed to increase his panic. He cursed as he realised what had caused this. His tears were a little holy, they had hurt Crowley, had reminded him of what had been done to him. Quickly, he wiped his hand dry on his trousers. "I'm sorry, I didn't think! Crowley! Crowley, it's okay, it's me!"

From one moment to the next, he stilled. The tension left his body, he sagged in his arms. "Where are we?"

Aziraphale felt new tears form in his eyes. "My bookshop." He hoped the tone of his voice didn't betray how much it broke his heart to see Crowley like this.

Crowley nodded and relaxed further. His breathing slowed.

And for a few terrible moments, Aziraphale worried he would pass out.

But then he shifted and leaned his head against his shoulder. Then he stayed quiet for several long minutes.

When he stirred, there was a frustrated frown on his face. He tried to say something but his mouth didn't quite seem to be able to form the words. He grunted and hissed. "-eed to- to-" He growled.

"What do you need?" Aziraphale asked gently.

Crowley gave another frustrated hiss. Then he pointed up.

"You want to go upstairs?"

He gave a curt nod.

"Of course. Let me help you up." With one arm around Crowley's waist and one hand holding one of his, he pulled him to his feet. "I'll miracle us up, alright?"

He nodded again.

Once there, Crowley's snake-like tongue flicked out, scenting the air. He extracted himself from Aziraphale and walked towards the bed. He collapsed face-first onto it and groaned. With great effort, he turned onto his side, one hand dangled off the bed.

Aziraphale sat down on the edge of the bed and took his hand in his own.

Crowley's eyebrows rose, his expression soft, surprised even.

"What is it?"

"Nh-nh." He shook his head and nuzzled into the pillow.

Aziraphale smiled softly.

Silence settled over them once more.

But something weighed on his mind. He wanted- he needed to know. "Crowley?"

"Hrm?"

"You've really lost your sight?"

He nodded.

Aziraphale swallowed hard. "Is it temporary? Do you know how long it will take until your sight returns?" Quietly, he added: "Or will it stay this way?"

Crowley sighed. "Don't know." His hand twitched nervously. "It's not like there's a reference guide for this sort of thing." Bitterness found its way into his voice.

"I understand," he said with a heavy heart. "Have any of your other senses been affected?"

"Noise is distracting," he said curtly.

Aziraphale frowned. "Do you mean noises distract you more than usual?"

He shook his head. "I hear noises. It started when- when I was in there."

"Oh…" He raised Crowley's hand to his lips and kissed it. "I will remain by your side, dear. For however long this takes.."

Crowley's eyes widened. "Thanksss."

Aziraphale smiled before he realised that Crowley couldn't see him. He squeezed his hand instead and leaned in to kiss his forehead.

After a few minutes, he slowly pulled his hand away.

Crowley made a protesting noise and held onto him.

"Oh, I'm sorry, dear. I thought you were already asleep."

A small frown formed on Crowley's face. "Stay?"

"Of course, I will. There's an armchair right next to the bed."

"Nnng." He shook his head and pulled at Aziraphale's hand.

"Do you want me to stay right here?"

But Crowley still pulled at his hand. "Closer," he mumbled.

Aziraphale's eyes widened. Quickly, he lay down next to Crowley.

One of Crowley's hands slid up his shoulder, his neck, to his cheek. It remained there for a moment before sliding into his hair.

"May I hug you?"

"Hmhm."

Slowly, Aziraphale wrapped his arms around him and held him close. He felt Crowley reciprocate. His hands came to rest on his back, his face pressed into his chest.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading! If you enjoyed it please consider leaving kudos/comments! <3


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